Musings of a former triathlon widow; now full time mumma to our 3 delicious offspring. A most likely futile attempt to kick-start my sludgy brain into creating something that doesn't involve cheap paper and stickers from the pound shop. I'll be interested to see how this pans out.

Monday, 15 August 2011

The race - number 2

OK. For my loyal lycra-clad follower I am pulling my finger out and finally posting another post. Actually, news on the tri front is pretty limited – after Spain, OH has given himself a break and the only training he has been doing is with his drinking hand (that’s not intended to be as filthy as it sounds). I could regale you with stories of late night drunken lunacy and all day Pimms benders but they all end pretty much the same way (slurred “I love you” and regretful “I’m getting to old for all this” – yeah, whatever) so with that in mind I will leave you to imagine these things and I’m sure you won‘t be far wrong.

For posterity, I’m going to briefly recap about the race in Spain despite the fact that it feels like it was a 100 years ago now. España: land of tapas and sunshine and cerveza and most importantly the ETU Triathlon European Championships in Pontevedra. Boring stuff first, OH did well, both very pleased with his result as it looks like he might finally be making some progress on the swimming front (let’s just say in his wave of 45 I was expecting to count 43 green caps before I saw him get out of the water – I was pleasantly surprised to spot him at number 21). I did try to film the momentous occasion to share with you all and thought I was doing so ever so diligently only to realise that I had forgotten to press the record button. Whoops.

I think one of the highlights of the trip for me however was when OH got asked for his autograph. Cue large belly laughs. Actually, I was in the loo, and so missed the event itself, but when I wandered out I noticed OH in a mutually-unable-to-speak-the-other-person’s-language tangle with a Spaniard who kept holding out a pen and gesturing for OH to scribble on his programme. OH (being cripplingly shy) of course refused. On closer inspection of the programme however, it became apparent that said Spaniard thought OH was Alistair Brownlee. Bless him. So a quandary for OH. Does he leave this guy feeling absolutely distraught because his favourite triathlete isn’t as nice as he seems by refusing to sign? Or does he leave an unintelligible moniker on the book and make the guy’s day but know in his heart forever that he is a cheat, a player, a wannabe, if you will? Options considered OH couldn’t sign and as we wandered off to the café to get our Fanta Limón the Spaniard’s wounded-puppy-dog-eyes-stare bored into the back of our heads. The image will stay with me forever.

Actually I can’t really remember much else of the race now – I suspect this is down to my new addled Baby Brain state. Yep, OH and I are thrilled and excited (and a little worried, if I’m honest, in case the kid wants to be an actor and not an athlete) to announce that we are having a little mini-me-mini-OH in February next year. Don’t panic! Plans for any triathlon events next year are unchanged. Of course the arrival of a screeching little bundle of joy couldn’t possibly ever affect the Master Triathlon Plan (cue dastardly but quite possibly naïve laughter)! OH even thinks 2 weeks paternity leave will work very well as an intensive training camp. We’ll see. But really, it’s nice that finally “new arrival” in our house means what it traditionally means (rather than me announcing that OH has bought yet another bike).

I do have concerns though. Serious concerns. OH is already lining up our friends' kids to race against our kid. There's talk of a show down at Windsor in 2029. Apparently interval training in the pool begins in March ("babies can swim before they can walk, right?"). I keep trying to gently suggest to OH that our little darling might inherit my absolute hopelessness at any activity vaguely categorised as sporting. He won't hear of it. He's convinced that I'm perfect Mother DNA material because I have such huge feet - (@drfothers : "the missing link") - whatever happens the kid will have stable platforms so is bound to be good at something sporty, right? Hooray. Can't wait. Actually, my feelings are pretty much summed up by the comment of a good friend: "might be a good thing if your offspring is not such a mentalist on the sports front - OH’ll be outnumbered then..." Couldn't have said it any better myself.

2 comments:

OK. Bad news for your OH. Most of your aerobic fitness is theoretically determined by your mother rather than your father. The theory is that as it is your mitochondia that do all the energy production, and they ALL come from the mother. It's you that will be determining whether junior wins at sports-day.